Perfect War Forever
by RadarRun
Summary: They have arrived. They are relentless. They do not sleep. They do not stop. They do not feel. They have more hats than us.
1. And The Band Played

_Unknown map, 48 hours ago_.

The things, whatever they were, were massing at the bottom of the tower.  
He checked his pockets. Twenty shells, twelve arrows, some pocket lint and- ahem- a few miscellaneous jars.  
You know, now that he got right down to it, now that the icy breath of death (as it were) was hissing down his neck (score another point for a hyperactive sense of morbidity, he thought absently, where had _that _particular phrase sprung from?) they seemed like the silliest weapon.  
And no way to restock without either risking the hoard or taking a swift, unforgettable drop to the floor below.  
Thankfully, he consoled himself, the Medic had said the things weren't_ intelligent;_ not like _real _people were. So logically, he could just wait for someone to-  
behind him.  
A creak.  
The ladder to the roof took some weight, on its lowest rung.  
("Clever girl", he said absentmindedly.)  
He was never a man to panic. He took off his hat, and scratched a trail in his close-cropped hair. Thought deeply; for he understood that, in a life or death situation, the first move, perhaps even the first word, would be the most vital.  
That said, he sat down and considered his position. Impeachable position, really, in sniping terms. Though not so much in the way of real, practical, go-on-living terms. Limited ammo. No supplies. Respawn terminally off-line. Slavering masses below. Sky (with vultures at no extra cost) above. After creak on ladder, heart firmly in mouth. Creaking on ladder getting closer. Closer. Really quite too close.  
"Bugger," he said, in a small, heartfelt way.  
But then again...  
Impeachable position. _Some_ ammunition. Faithful kukri, edge undulled. Overwhelming odds below. Sky above. Nobody waiting at home, to grieve and mourn and pity (how he would have _hated_ that.)  
He ran a thumb along the soft felt rim. And his hat, of course. He had his hat.  
Always a comfort in times of stress, that hat.  
He popped it on, and settled it squarely. Drew himself up. Racked up a shell in the chamber of the gun, with a meaningful click.  
Perhaps, if the masses below had heard that, and if they _could_ have felt, they would have felt scared, then.  
He stood up, his legs shaking only slightly, and strode over to the edge of the roof. Looked down at the indistinct mass, as they looked up at him. Hungrily.  
"G'day mates!" he said cheerily. He flung the kukri almost carelessly behind him. It hit something solid, and the something solid stumbled back, and fell down the access hatch, messily, landing in a crumpled heap at the foot of the ladder it had so recently climbed.  
His voice was only a little hoarse, he thought. That was good. He glanced down the scope. Beautiful. Couldn't have gotten a better spec with a magnifying glass. He shouldered the rifle; took fairly indiscriminate aim at the heads of the masses below. Felt the 19 shells jangling in his pocket. Felt a lump rising in his throat. Smiled. Took careful aim. Fired. Something crumpled and fell, folding like a house of cards.  
He racked the shell out; took no. 19 out of his pocket; smiled again.  
"Right, you cursory bastards," he sang out, "anybody else want's to come a-Waltzing Matilda with _me_?"


	2. Hoppa Reiter

_Map_Pipeline, 46 hours ago. _

His lungs were on fire. But he had to keep running. Otherwise... _they'd_ get him.

There was one down there now, in the shape of a medic.

_Waiting_.

He couldn't breathe.

"I'm going to saw zhrough your bones!" it called cheerfully.

Oh Jesus. It wasn't going away. Occasionally, some... force called them away, some signal only they seemed to get, but this one was just waiting for him.

At the bottom of the ramp.

Smiling.

With a saw.

"Come here!" the cheerful voice floated up again. "I promise I will heal you!"  
The Scout tightened his grip on the bat, tried to breathe, to think. Yeah right. That's how it had gotten to the Spy. Not him. He was going to survive.

"_Horrido_!" said the Medic-thing cheerfully. There was a flat twang as the bonesaw rebounded off a steel pipe.

He was good catholic boy, or at least, he had been, once. So, as he crouched, gulping air, he tried to piece together whatever bits of the Our Father he could remember. So far, all he was getting was the bit about daily bread, which (growing up in a house of perpetually hungry brothers) had sounded like a pretty sweet deal, actually. If you were, like, really into bread. Like, I dunno, maybe a bread _enthusiast_ or whatever.

Hiding wasn't going to work. The thing was getting closer. And he could still see black spots in front of his eyes. He levered himself up, groaning in harmony with his knees, and looked around him. Behind him, the open end of a pipe. Beyond that, nothing to step onto. Only dark sky and empty dead air, too still, too quiet, lit by torches, and the long fall to the bottom of pipeline.

At the other end of the pipe...

The footsteps.

Ohgoditwasgettingcloser.

"I am prepared to do whatever it takes!" the thing called out again; definitely the kind of manic edge of cheeriness that suggests one who enjoys a gruesome job a little too much.

The Scout (had he a name?) looked both way, and decided on the only course of action, (for he was good catholic boy, and believed in the soul,) and took one, two steps (and had shrewdly guessed) and a deep breath (that while some things were a mortal sin), and leapt into the open air (that some things were much, much worse.)

The torches in Pipeline did not flicker once.

Gradually, the Medic-thing made its way to where the boy had stood. Its toe tips grazed the very edge of the pipe. It laughed.

The thin, eerie sound of a violin rang out, though not a one was present.


End file.
